


A Prayer For Making Brothers

by Vulgarweed



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Community: queer_fest, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angels don’t have faith the way humans do; the existence of God is a given. Aziraphale still has his feathers very ruffled over the matter of his sexuality; after all, as an angel, he’s probably not supposed to have one at all. Desire didn’t do the Watchers, who Fell for desire for human women, any favors. But it’s certainly not human women Aziraphale wants – does that make it better or worse?</p>
<p>Written for Queer Fest 2011. Prompt: A character finds a way to reconcile their faith and sexuality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Prayer For Making Brothers

There are those who have always believed that Paradise must be a sort of library. And for that sort, Purgatorial punishment is the air-conditioned airport bookstore where the fallen angel Penemue is forced to dwell til Judgment. 

Currently, he was engaged in folding a thousand rather malformed and starved-looking peace cranes out of pages of water stained used copies of _The Celestine Prophecy._

“I’ve finally finished all the Rod McKuen,” he said ruefully to his nervous visitor Aziraphale, who had discreetly and clandestinely slipped him a few _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ tie-in novels. “Ah, this is how they should have been,” Penemue sighed. “Still kind of stupid. But at least their banter is witty.”

Penemue was not the most repentant or remorseful of the Grigori (nor the least either) but he possibly was the one with the greatest sense of failure – after all, he had originally been tasked with the heroic job of curing stupidity in mankind, and found himself utterly defeated by that force of nature, whose power he had gravely underestimated. In the face of such a formidable enemy, he’d done what his order of angels did best – he dithered. 

And eventually, he’d wound up teaching the art of writing and reading to a particularly attractive human of a female shape, in exchange for some lessons in a rather more human-specific art form…and the rest is Apocrypha. But Penemue believed, deep in his heart-like organ, that his real sin hadn’t been so much the horizontal mambo as giving humanity the tools to better perpetuate that which he was supposed to remove.

“Has anything new and interesting appeared in your…library…lately?” Aziraphale asked carefully, and then winced. Really, was there anything he could say to Penemue that wouldn’t be awkward? Glancing around, he couldn’t help but notice there did seem to be some new titles – “My Immortal,” “Celebrian, “The Eye of Argon.”

“Why?” Penemue asked hopefully. “Do you want to trade? I understand there’s a new fic – it’s 27 whole chapters about Snape lactating!”

“Er…I’m sure I could find it for you,” Aziraphale said.

It may surprise some people to learn that there are prisons in Heaven. They are few, but they do exist, mostly for the sake of those specific prisoners who were thought likely to undermine the purpose of Hell if sent there, or those who might enjoy it too much. As a general rule, current thinking did not favor dispatching misbehaving angels there, as they tended to form gangs and become worse than before, not even caring that teardrop tattoos were strictly prohibited in Leviticus. 

Penemue’s cell was not odious as prisons go, and certainly not up to the common man’s idea of Hellish accommodations. But his desk was made of copies of _Left Behind – The Kids_ and his bed was built from historically-inaccurate and culturally-insensitive romances, and that was just enough to chronically needle the poor Watcher into craving a fatal overdose of brain bleach, as he was forced to metaphorically Watch the results of his own gravest misstep. Visiting with him could never be anything but awkward, as his mind was clearly showing its cracks.

Aziraphale had been playing the “visit the prisoner” scripture card for some millennia now, at first out of genuine compassion for such a cruelly punished fellow bibliophile, and later with an ever-increasing ulterior motive as his urge to ask Penemue about a particular issue grew and grew until it became the fake woolly mammoth fossil in the room.

But Penemue would work around to it sooner or later. Aziraphale just had to wait, and try not to fidget too much.

“Is there any news of my descendants?” Penemue asked morosely. “I understand my great-googol-granddaughter is no longer the governor of Al-Askah?”

“Yes, that’s true,” Aziraphale sighed. “I think she’s well and happy, though. She’s still on the telly a lot.” He fished for something to say. “She’s quite…pretty, I am told.”

“They all were,” Penemue sighed. “What about Bella? Is she all right? That birth was even more grueling than when Semyaza’s first was born, and I have to say, I could have lived many aeons without seeing…”

It took Aziraphale way too long of a moment to realize that Penemue had switched into discussing fictional characters now. “She’s fine,” he said quickly. “Blood is…good for the blood.”

Penemue seemed satisfied by this, at least momentarily, before wandering off on yet another of his doleful tangents. “If only they’d let me do my job,” he sighed.

_If only you’d_ just _done your job,_ Aziraphale thought. “I suppose…hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

“For us, it’s more like eleventy-eleventy,” said Penemue. “In theory, stupidity should have been easy to remove, if they’d just held still. But it kept growing back, no matter what I did. And eventually, I caught it too. Right in the meat and two veg, of all places. Before that, I would have thought it started in the brain. So…are angels still Falling over this? Or is it all just par for the course now?”

“I…haven’t heard of anyone…” Aziraphale said. He hadn’t, it was true, and he was urgently hoping he wasn’t going to turn out to be the next case file.

“I understand Uriel said that we didn’t get mates because we don’t need to reproduce because we don’t die.”

“Did you hear that from…”

“Enoch and his stupid little letter that didn’t do jack for us but managed to get him promoted from mere human to the Big Man’s press secretary, remember? Don’t know how he could have even managed a letter if not for me, much less that scandalous little tabloid. It wasn’t even in the right language—of course, he could barely speak his own, never mind ours. And then he had the gall to come to me for proofreading.”

Aziraphale winced. “One could hardly expect either of them to view what happened in the most complimentary light.”

“I wish he’d asked you instead, Aziraphale. You’d have sneaked some truth in there.”

Aziraphale double-winced, having never ever ever wanted to be anywhere near the whole bizarre and sordid affair. Was it really so terrible, what the Watchers did? Half the Heavenly Host had trembled in horror that something that seemed so terribly easy to do should turn out to be judged so harshly, and the other half fell over themselves trying to judge the act of taking up with human women as harshly as possible. (The word “bestiality” had come up more than once). But not even the loudest shouters and harshest edicters had been sure whether the real sin was the lust, or the creation of half-breed children, or the way the whole lot of the falling angels had walked into the matter with eyes wide open, vowing to share in each others' punishment. 

Aziraphale himself had been hiding under a tavern roof and trying to get the only already-fallen Enemy who’d drink with him in a civilised fashion to explain why punishment seemed to be such a popular hobby. 

“So,” Penemue said, apropos of everything. “So no one else has, as they say on Earth I gather, ‘tapped that?’ Not even you? You’ve been around them longer than we ever were. You’re in a man-shaped body so it shouldn’t be that much of an effort. You practically have to ice it down to keep it calm once it’s started.”

“Er,” Aziraphale said. He looked down at the floor (which had the covers of Mack Bolan pulp novels arranged in a sort of linoleum-like pattern). “I…er…haven’t…but…”

Penemue laughed. “You know that thing you never use? You just use it.”

“Well, I know _that,”_ Aziraphale said indignantly. “I’ve read _books!”_

“Yes, thanks to me!”

“I suppose that must be true,” Aziraphale said. “You have had a significant influence.”

But Penemue had moved away from books to his other favourite subject. “You know it works, though, right? You don’t have to do anything to get it going, it just pops right up and casts a shadow like a sundial. Just show it some pictures of women, right? So you move on to the real thing, you’ve already thought about what you want to do…and women are all so beautiful, aren’t they?’

“Well….certainly a well-made aspect of Creation, yes…”

“And they know how to turn it on, believe me. Sometimes I think they’re really Lilim, all of them. Adam ran around on Eve so much I’ll bet most of her children weren’t even really hers.”

Aziraphale was not sure which would be more excruciatingly awkward – if Penemue were to catch on to the fact that Aziraphale had very little to say on the subject of women, or if he failed to do so. Aziraphale really only had anything approaching that kind of lecherous eloquence for the male form, truth be told, and for one male form in particular, who at least, if worst came to worst, probably couldn’t Fall twice.

Aziraphale, however, could do it at least once. It really all depended exactly on which axis the fatal sin lay, and it would just be too, too awkward to watch Penemue dissect his downward trajectory precisely. Perhaps it was dread of that awkwardness that made Aziraphale blurt something far worse still: “Did you love her?”

There was a silence. There was such a silence. Aziraphale thought that if Penemue believed he had any rage left to stand on, he’d have challenged Aziraphale to a smiting match that could take out at least three spheres. But the Watcher thought no such thing, and he simply looked down at the floor and said quickly, “Yes. Of course I did. And I still do.”

“So…” Aziraphale said. “And that…wasn’t enough?”

“Apparently not.”

Aziraphale felt deeply ashamed of himself, and just placed a hand on the other angel’s shoulder, at least in part to steady himself. Of course. The edicts handed down through the voice of the Metatron were pretty damn clear on the subject, about the importance of hierarchy and place in the order, the relative value of duty and desire, the utter wrongness of violating ‘nature,’ such as it was for such beings. Still, even if commands were disobeyed, shouldn’t there be some wiggle room for…well…love?

“Pen,” Aziraphale said softly. “Do you remember that favour you asked of me? Not the books, I mean…the other? That item you kept all this time?”

“Yes, of course. I never wanted you to risk yourself. I still don’t. I just thought you might have certain…opportunities that I don’t.” He looked up at Aziraphale then, fixed him straight in the eyes—Penemue’s were sea-coloured, copper-ringed, and deeply saddened. But their light was not fully dimmed; there was a back room in there where Penemue’s real flame burned, alert as ever. “It’s been so very long.”

“I will try,” Aziraphale said. “I swear it.”

“That is all I ever asked,” Penemue said. He seemed to have no pontifications left, and wanted only to be left alone with his new Buffy adventures. Aziraphale nodded. “Oh, and that _thing_ of yours?” Penemue asked.

“Yes?”

“Be careful with it. I just hope it’s not humans, that’s all. Maybe you’ll be alright if it’s not humans. I seem to remember Raphael bragging about getting his essence off once or twice back in the old days, doesn’t seem to have hurt _him.”_

_It isn’t humans,_ Aziraphale thought.

On the way back to Earth, he deliberately flew through a supercell thunderstorm to cleanse himself of the smell of bad books. This is the angelic equivalent of a high-powered car wash.

It seemed like that very same downpour continued, all through the days leading up to London Pride. Aziraphale holed up in his shop, and he read, and he paced. 

He considered his situation, and Penemue’s, and all the others—the Grigori, bound to each other in oaths to share each other’s sin. And the nature of that sin? To wear their human costumes all too well, to feel their pulls and their tugs, their pains and their pleasures, their stupid cravings and exalted needs.

It was all well and good for Aziraphale to be secure in the knowledge that he didn’t desire human women at all, and human men only slightly more. But when he actually contemplated the sack of flesh wrapped around his body of fire, he found that he had no greater success in staring matches with the one-eyed serpent between his thighs than he did with the two-eyed one he regularly faced down over wine and canapés at the Ritz. (Like calls to like. Was the sin of the watchers the unlikeness—or was it the call?) He still could not shake the growing conviction that those two serpents might prove well-suited to each other.

A human body is not a mere costume. It is an entity unto itself, after all. It was made, in all its arguable perfection, as a fine instrument of senses. Human senses are not the same as angelic senses, but Aziraphale was perfectly positioned to know that that didn’t mean they’re _inferior_ —except when it comes to asking for signs.

Short of endless praying, short of casting a circle and invoking himself, short of throwing himself on the mercy of the Ineffable (their little joke), Aziraphale was not any better positioned than any human to ask for a sign. That didn’t stop him, of course, and so he did. Awkwardly.

“Father…if it isn’t too much trouble…although You know I have had some questions, recently, about the way certain matters are handled in the office, and especially down here in the field…I do so hope by now that You understand that sometimes I do have to make independent judgment calls of a sort, seeing as how You did send me down here to look after all Your creations, and I _do_ take that responsibility quite seriously, even to the point of being willing to look rather foolish in the eyes of some of my colleagues, I really do beg you that if I were about to take a truly _terrible_ misstep, You might perhaps let me know before such a thing were to happen. It’s not terribly often that I have to make a very difficult decision, or come across a question I can’t find the answer to, I do so hate to be a pest, but as You can imagine, I’m sure, how important this issue is to…oh dear,” Aziraphale muttered, as his prayer was interrupted by an urgency in his trousers. Built into the machinery. There was nothing for it. The rain on the roof was incessant.

Aziraphale’s uncomfortably aroused sulk was broken only by a rude pounding on the bookshop door.

As the door swung open so hard the glass rattled, Aziraphale drew breath sharply. The rain was still pounding down, Crowley’s powers of dryness seemed to have failed him—and the clouds split as if there were a zipper in the grey wool, enough to show the face of the sun upon the revelers outside—and the downward bow of the rainbow, God’s promise, seemed to curve down and end right on Crowley’s head, casting multicoloured shimmers into his wet black hair.

Aziraphale stood silent, not breathing, not moving. Waiting for the breath upon the waters. The dry place for the raven and the dove.

_He swore He’d never do it again._

He took Crowley’s hand suddenly. “Come in, come in…there’s wine.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said. “It’ll take weeks to get all the glitter off the Bentley, and…mmmmpphhh….”

Eventually, the _mmmmph_ stopped, and changed its nature – less panicky, more moist.

“…sorry, I…”

“….waited too fuckin’ long?”

“Wait, wait,” Aziraphale said, gasping, holding on to Crowley’s half-buttoned shirt. “Yes. I think this is…all right. I really do. I was afraid but….

“Of course you’re afraid, so’m I,” panted Crowley, sounding a little drunk as if the mere mention of wine were enough to get him there. It wasn’t, of course. But Aziraphale’s kiss was. “But…”

“I think it’s…all right. Maybe? Faith and hope and…”

“That whole business,” said Crowley, smelling Aziraphale’s trembling want with his tongue, hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, clutching in his sleeve.

“Oh, there’s something you _must_ do, remember when I asked you if you knew…you know, Downstairs, a certain lady?”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” said Crowley, thrown even further off guard by what seemed to him a completely left-field tangent, “I know of her. Been there a long time. The standard – forbidden knowledge, forbidden love, yadda yadda. She’s a pistol, though. Holding up well, considering.”

“I have a message for her. From a friend. I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure…” Aziraphale backed off so quickly Crowley nearly fell over, and went to his shelves, tapped three times on one left wall, pulled aside a book, removed a brick, drew a sigil with his finger, and waited for another inside wall to move. He drew out a small bundle wrapped in cloth, about the size of a large bar of soap, and handed it to Crowley. “It’s very important. If you could possibly deliver it the next time you’re Down There, I’d really appreciate it.”

“I will,” said Crowley, looking very bewildered. “And I would…really appreciate it if you’d kiss me like that again.”

“Oh, I will, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Again and again and again.” And he did.

 

The bundle in Crowley’s jacket pocket (currently discarded on the floor among other items of clothing) will eventually be delivered to the lovely Ninlil, who waits in patience and pain in Hell. She is no fool; she believes in trials by fire, she believes in love and lust; she believes in eternity, and she believes in Underworld quests, because after a long enough while, there is nothing left to fear.

The message is not impressive to look at. It is a slab of rock with some chickenscratch markings carved in its rough surface (the last of which, only extreme occult geeks will have any change of recognizing as the sigil of the angel Penemue). It’s a not-especially-remarkable-looking Sumerian artifact. It was first given to her long, long ago, and found a thousand years after the Flood washed her and her land away, and returned to its author by an ineffable hand.

It’s the first love letter ever written. 

As you read this, Aziraphale and Crowley are busy writing the most recent one. And if a binding prayer boils down to a handclasp at the end of the world, they'll pray it before God and everyone.

 

~end~


End file.
